Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  Michael’s cheeks were drawn in tightly, as if he were sucking an aspirin tablet. “Persevere like the paper said?” He slipped his cell phone from his sport coat pocket with a shaky hand. “I’m going to try Teddy again. Maybe there’s something he can do for Nicholas out in LA.”

  “Michael,” Claire shouted out after him as she watched him disappear, again, past the nurses’ station. “LA?”

  CHAPTER 12

  The kids who could now freely come to see Nicholas were a wonderful boost—so upbeat in their brief but frequent appearances. They’d hug Claire hello, but their visits were focused on their friend, and Claire could blend into the background as they launched into one-sided conversations about concerts they’d go to or parties they’d have once he was better. The boys brought their iPods and played new downloads for Nick in the speakers they’d set up. The girls brought stuffed animals and balloons and filled the room with their hope. But many of the others who showed up—the not-so-close family friends—brought a more complicated vibe, and as the days lumbered past, Claire realized that the stigma of what she had done seemed to be taking on a life of its own. Jackie still stood in as best she could as a buffer against the phone calls and spontaneous hospital visits, but it was becoming obvious that more “facts” had begun to leak in certain circles, and the fabric of her insulation was wearing thin.

  After seven or eight voice mail messages on her cell—all variations of “I don’t mean to be indelicate here, sweetie, but I’m having a hard time believing what I’m hearing”—Claire just stopped listening to them. What good would it do to return the calls and try to deny what she knew she couldn’t? Better, she thought, to go with a no-comment approach, and let Jackie update the sincerely concerned about Nick’s progress. Claire thanked the few lucky stars she had for her sister’s steadfast presence and unshrinking ability to play sentry. She needed her focus and energy for her son, and if she didn’t confirm the rumors with answers, eventually, she rationalized, they’d lose their steam. She could crawl back out of her hole and reconnect with the world when Nicky was through the worst, and when the spotlight was no longer so harsh. Easier living through avoidance—she’d learned it from Michael, a champion at the game.

  Of course sometimes there was just no avoiding reality. On her way home from the hospital the week following the society column flare-up, Claire stopped to pick up a late lunch for herself at Pasta Pasta Pasta—long past the midday social hour there. As the counter girl packed up her salad, Claire heard the door chimes ring. She turned to see a committee friend of many years walk into the small café. The woman stopped just a few feet away, her jaw tensing above her tightly wound scarf. She stared at Claire, as if Claire had just lost a limb and was out in public for the first time.

  “Hello, Judy,” Claire said, rolling the top of the paper bag down until the Styrofoam container belched from within. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Oh. Claire. Yes, it’s so nice. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you out and about and . . .” she paused with her mouth open, seemingly balancing some unspoken words on her tongue. “Everyone feels so horrible, and I’m just meeting Renee here.” Her eyes were focused on Claire’s elbow. “I hope your son is coming through all right?”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman stepped in closer to Claire. “So, where are you staying now?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Staying?” She could feel the dampness of her palms transferring onto the paper bag. “When I’m not at the hospital? I go home. To my house.”

  “Oh! Really? I’d just heard that . . . well . . . Anyway, it’s so nice you’re out. I’ll be sure and tell Renee I saw you.” She continued past Claire to the counter.

  Claire slogged to her car, her appetite lost.

  Michael was pulling out of the driveway as she pulled in.

  Soon enough the phone calls and visits began to taper. The looky-loos had grown nervous, Claire imagined, when she gave it any thought at all, that the scent of scandal might somehow cling to their own reputations if they commiserated with the adulteress who had made the worst possible choice in lovers. And she was relieved. The only person she wanted to hunker down with and be completely honest and ugly and raw about the whole awful mess was the only person she couldn’t reach. Michael slept in the guest room on the nights she returned from the hospital, retreating into his isolation, guarding his resentment or vulnerability—or whatever it was that seemed to be propelling him ever deeper into a fugue-like state about their marriage—with fierce resolve. And with each milestone Nicholas reached—reestablishing cycles of sleeping and waking, focusing on objects—Michael expressed dismay at the slowness of the progress, gripping his half-empty glass. So she resigned herself to waiting for a breakthrough.

  And at the end of the next week there was a shift. Late on a Friday afternoon Michael arrived at the hospital, appearing calmer to Claire, his edginess rounded out somehow. “It’s nice out,” he’d said to her with an actual smile. “Why don’t we take a little walk in the gardens?” His cell phone was nowhere in sight and his tone was pleasant, almost buoyant. “We should talk.”

  Claire looked at him with surprise, seeing a spark of the old Michael, and feeling as if she’d been asked out on a second date. She ducked into the tiny bathroom near the nurse’s station and looked at herself in the mirror. Things weren’t looking good, she knew. And neither was she. But still. He wanted to talk, and the idea that he might finally be moving through his anger, remote as it was, was a beguiling beacon. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she noticed a bright strand of gray at her temple. She grabbed it between her thumb and index finger and plucked it from her scalp.

  She met Michael in the hall and they walked outside. Bright mounds of impatiens rimmed the sculpture garden, and a sunset readied itself in the distance. She considered floating the idea of counseling as they made comfortable small talk, but she was also poised for whatever might help them to move forward.

  They sat down on a wooden bench in the courtyard, their knees gently brushing. She looked at Michael’s profile and saw a nick on his jaw where he always shaved too closely. Maybe this was what they needed to do first, feel their way back to the pace of just being side-by-side again. “Do a little blood-letting this morning?” she teased.

  Michael let out a soft laugh and placed his hand on her thigh, causing Claire to fill up like a wind sock puppet, caught in a surprise gust of intimacy.

  “Teddy got Nicholas in at Rancho Los Amigos,” he said after a beat, beaming.

  “What?”

  “It’s one of the best rehabilitation facilities in the country for traumatic brain injury.”

  “I know what it is, I’ve read all about it.” She pulled her knee away and turned to face him. “But it’s in LA.”

  “Teddy’s tight with one of the neurologists there, and he was finally able to call in a favor. He’s going to make sure Nicholas gets the best staff.” Michael took his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. “They can take him in a few days.”

  “What are you talking about? This sounds like a done deal.”

  “It is a done deal.”

  And just like that, Claire felt herself falling down the rabbit hole. “LA?” She pushed herself up and stood in front of him, squinting through the glare of the sun. “How could you do this without even discussing it? You can’t just ship him away,” she cried, ignoring the smattering of other visitors in the garden. “He needs his family around him.”

  “No one’s shipping Nicholas away. You can stay out there with him until he’s ready to come back.”

  The heat seemed to tighten around Claire’s head, occluding her vision and leaving her woozy. She hated Michael in that moment, the way all women hate an irrationally behaving husband. “Oh. So that’s why you show up here in such a pleasant mood— because you’ve figured out a convenient way to get rid of me? Stash your problems a thousand miles away so you can continue avoiding them?”

  “Claire,”
he said, his tone unwavering, “that’s not what’s happening here.”

  She blinked rapidly until her vision sharpened back into focus, leaving her instantly ashamed and surprised by her reaction. But the fact that he had not discussed such a major decision with her, that he hadn’t even let her know it was on the table, was insensitive. And so typical. Her mouth hung slack as a short list of Michael’s increasingly unilateral decisions came to mind: his declaration on Nicky’s tenth birthday that their boy would be following the Montgomery family tradition of attending Andover, despite her reservations; his long-term rental of the Cape house two years later—which was lovely and wonderful, but which he hadn’t once consulted her about; and his stunning announcement the previous year that he had scheduled a vasectomy. Any concern or disagreement she voiced, Michael had met with a persuasive, lawyerly response, a long list of pros that could sway even the most resistant opponent—followed by a forgiveness-inspiring bottle of wine and a shoulder rub. Sometimes she hated herself for acquiescing, especially on the boarding school issue, but mostly it was just more sensible to agree. Conflict was not something she enjoyed, and compromise was key to a good marriage. But there would be no Caymus this time. “Michael,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “Craig is the right place for Nicky.”

  He shook his head deliberately. “This is for the best.” No disdain, no rage.

  “But he can’t make that trip yet; he’s not strong enough. He should be near his home, in a familiar setting. And how could you make this kind of decision without even talking to me first?”

  “Teddy’s got it all arranged, Claire.”

  “Nicholas is our son.” Tumbling like Alice deeper into a place where nothing was how it should have been, she wondered when it would end, when she would land.

  “Teddy pulled a lot of major strings. It’s the best TBI program available. And Nicky needs to get started. You know this.”

  She waved her arms in front of his Ray-Ban-shaded eyes, feeling the sting of all those one-sided conversation she’d let slide, and all of the other little mayhems of their marriage. “Do you see me, Michael? Hello! Do I count at all? Do my opinions count?”

  Michael removed his sunglasses. “Would you please—”

  “Would I please what? Bite my tongue like I always do and cave to what you want?” Michael remained seated while Claire paced in front of him. All of her hopes and the white-hot accumulation of her frustration and guilt escaped like gas into air, fueling the inevitable explosion. “I’m so tired of being invisible to you, Michael. We used to be a team, you used to care about my opinions. But you started tuning me out and disappearing from this marriage long before Nicky’s accident. You’ve been running ‘the Michael show,’ when it should have been ‘the Michael and Claire show.’ ” She leaned in close to his face, her hands clasping the backrest on either side of his shoulders. “Is it really a surprise that I fucked him? At least he saw me.” She hurled the words and hoped they’d shatter all around him.

  Michael winced, but his voice remained controlled in his response. “It’s the best solution for Nicholas right now, Claire.”

  Bells from a nearby church tolled.

  “I asked you a question, Michael.” She was on her knees in front of him now, crying. “DO YOU SEE ME?”

  “Yes, I see you. And if you could for just one moment separate yourself from the situation, you would see that this is what’s best for our son. A top facility with top doctors, available to us NOW.”

  She sat back on her feet and placed both hands on the ground, gathering her balance. Righting herself from the tumble.

  PART TWO

  Los Angeles

  CHAPTER 13

  The bedroom was still dim, with only faint shards of daylight piercing the skewed plastic mini-blinds. As her eyes focused, the headache set in. Claire took a moment to remind herself that the tiny apartment was home now. She felt sluggish, almost drugged. She had slept too long and now she was sorry. Too much sleep or too little, either way it drained the life right out of you, she thought. Her Swiss-efficient body clock, the one that woke her early and rushed her out the door to Rancho by eight every morning, had somehow failed. There was silence where there should have been a rush of mental lists and plans.

  She called the nurses’ station outside Nick’s room. Lydia answered. She liked Lydia, who always had the name of a grocery store or restaurant near the facility written on a piece of paper before Claire could even ask. Lydia informed Claire that the therapist was on her way to take Nicholas to his mat class. All was well. Claire checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Mat class, followed by speech therapy, followed by rest time, followed by lunch. Thursdays. She tucked deeper into the warm sheets.

  The flight out to Los Angeles the previous month in a chartered air ambulance Learjet had taken just over two hours. The plane carried Nicholas, the medical transport team, the critical care nurse, Michael, Claire, and the three bags she had assembled for a stay of undetermined length. Drs. Hoffman and Sheldon had added the convincing coda to Michael’s argument for Rancho Los Amigos with their assurances that Nicholas was, indeed, strong enough to be transferred, and that timing was of the essence.

  Michael returned to Denver just two days after their arrival in LA, after handling the registration at the hospital and meeting Nicholas’s team. On that afternoon, Claire had watched in the pale yellow room, with its framed photos of jonquils, irises, and butterflies as Michael appeared to search for words of farewell that would not break his composure. She watched as he spoke to what he surely saw as the damaged, withered shadow of his son.

  “I’ll be back real soon, pal. You’re gonna do just great here,” he had said, his hands wrapped around Nicholas’s clenched fist, his eyes focused somewhere far away.

  The unspoken message was not from father to son, but from husband to wife. You’ll make sure they fix him. She needed no reminder. She only had to look at Nicholas in the low, padded-wall-framed bed, with his left arm and leg propped up on a mound of pillows, his left foot relentlessly pointing down and inward, and the Frankenstein scar on his still patchy skull.

  “Fuuckk,” Nicholas responded in a loud, slow slur. “Fuuckk.”

  Claire stepped in next to Michael on Nicholas’s right side—his “good” side—and bent down to stroke his spiky hair. She whispered that everything was going to be okay, that they would help him here.

  “Fuuuuckkk,” he moaned again, staring out the window over her shoulder.

  Michael walked around to the left side of the bed where Nicholas had perceptual difficulties. He clutched the edge until his knuckles went white, and shook his head as if he were trying to shake loose the urge to throw something hard against the wall. Claire’s cheek prickled. She wanted to remind him that Nick’s behavior was to be expected at this stage, that he didn’t even realize who they were or what he was saying. But there was no point. Nothing seemed to penetrate the barrier he’d erected around himself. After several moments of congested silence, Michael bent over and kissed Nicholas on the forehead and turned to walk out of the room, his gait no longer a confident swagger, but the lumbering of a shattered, struggling man. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said in a distant voice.

  I guess it’s just the two of us now, Claire thought as she stood glancing around the forced lemon cheer of the room. The moment shouldn’t have come as a shock. Still, she trembled. She wanted to crawl into bed next to her boy and hold him tightly, but the walls that kept him safely in also shut her out.

  In her apartment bedroom, Claire flipped on the television with the remote and lingered in the cocoon of her sheets for another half hour. After the third weather report she made her way to the shower. By the time she’d dressed and finished breakfast it was already ten thirty, and she finally admitted the horrible truth to herself. I can’t go there now.

  Then the fantasies began. A day off, she caught herself thinking. A trip to the Getty, maybe a movie. A walk on the beach. The possibilities rolled like film credits
through her mind, and before she’d even made a conscious decision, Claire was out the door of her adequately cheery abode in the Casa Del Sol Apartments in Downey, California—just ten miles southeast of downtown LA, a convenient half mile from Rancho Los Amigos Rehabilitation Hospital, and a million miles from anywhere she’d ever thought she’d be.

  When she pulled off the Pacific Coast Highway, she saw the giant boardwalk carousel sitting motionless. She parked near the pier and removed her sunglasses uneasily, as if she’d just come from the eye doctor’s. The sun should have been a vibrant presence overhead by then. The shoreline below should have been pocked with joggers’ treads and gull prints, and surfers ought to have been clamoring for dominance on curling green swells. But the sky loomed gray, shrouding the Santa Monica foothills in fog. The air was damp and penetrating. Whitecaps dotted the coast and waves churned sand and spewed foam, leaving the appearance of frost on the surface. The gloom had done its steely best to discourage visitors.

  Claire raised the collar of her sweater and moved toward the water, feeling comforted by the emptiness. No doctors, no wheelchairs, no stale antiseptic odor. No one. Only the rhythmic clapping of the waves and the salty mist glossing her cheeks. She hugged her body and inhaled deeply, feeling the sharp air travel from her nose down through her lungs. As she exhaled, the tightness in her chest released in subtle increments. She stretched her arms above her head, then let them fall to her sides and sat down on an incline at the edge of the shore. Her spine curved and her body loosened. Kicking off her shoes, Claire dug her feet into the sand until they found dampness. She noticed chipped ruby polish on her wandering toes, and smiled for the first time in days.

  She and Nicholas had been in Los Angeles for over a month and this was her first visit to the beach, her first day away from him. Under other circumstances, nothing would have kept her from the water for so long. Its comforting rhythm always nourished the California native in her in a way the Rockies she so adored couldn’t quite. But the thought of a trip to the beach had never occurred to Claire, not until that morning. The long string of days at the hospital with Nicholas, seeing him through his various tests, his appointments with the physical therapists, the doctors, the occupational therapists, and all the rest were finally starting to exact their toll. Nick’s constellation of problems had seemed insurmountable from the moment they had arrived at Rancho, even though the doctors tried to prepare her and Michael for what their son would have to endure in the quest to increase his independence. But Claire was mostly alone with this new reality, and her inability to make some notable contribution to Nick’s recovery had started to weigh on her like a two-ton block of ice. Jackie came out when she could, but her visits were short and almost painful in their savage reminder of just how different Nick was from that boy who’d taught Allie and Miranda to ski a few short years ago.